Angry Kid

"I get it," Brad continued. He was standing on the far end of a well-furnished and quite large living room in an old house positioned in the middle of some Godforsaken town in Pennsylvania named Jerrickville. In Brad's hands-which were so tightly clutched around the object that they were turning white-was a glass circle. The glass circle belonged on top of a wooden table beside the big, green couch across the room from him and provided a more stable table-top than the wood. The cloth that had draped the table was thrown messily over a comfortable, brown chair-which was pressed against the corner of the living room to make a kitty-corner-and the lamp was on the ground, laying in its light bulb's shards. The lamp shade was indented and half-under the big, green couch that Megan Byrman was sitting on. The only light was coming from the overhead light which had light bulbs that imitated the shape of candle flames.

The brown carpet that this all sat on had been very pricey and had ancient, shed cat hair all over it, not to mention the lint and bright lines of white cloth that had presumably come from the bottom of peoples' socks. A large-screen television was sitting pretty inside of a storage area in the wall that the Byrman family had once used for storing laundry baskets until the washer was free. A DVD and VCR combination was on top of it. Currently in the DVD player was one of Jim Carrey's movies. Megan didn't remember which one despite having been watching it less than a half hour beforehand. It was still playing, but watching a movie was the furthest thing from her mind. The television's shattered screen was all that she could look at even if she had wanted to watch the movie. Brad had sent the remote through it to make that happen. Now Brad was glaring at her with his bright, blue eyes. The left one was blood shot and both carried baggage. His right ear was bleeding and his usually tamed, black hair was a complete mess now. His work uniform (funny, he was in high school yet he wore a work uniform) was all roiled up and stained with what Megan hoped to God wasn't blood.

She had noticed these things about him the moment he had traipsed into her house breathing heavily and looking royally pissed off. He had been standing on the far side of the room where the door to the entrance hall was for the past ten minutes in the exact same pose: his left elbow pressed against the wooden wall and his left foot, too. She didn't know why he was standing there, but it looked like he was waiting for something.

"I get it," he reiterated. "You don't love me anymore because I asked you if we could have sex. You bitch. That isn't it either. You use me so that you can feel better about yourself. You bitch your little problems to me and you insult me damn near twenty-four fucking seven! I didn't have much a problem with those two things, no, no. They were little things that just kept adding and adding and adding and adding to something that maybe I couldn't deal with. No, I could handle those things for a long time longer than I had been. You want to know what really set me off?"

His voice was calm now. Megan had heard that that was when an angry person got really dangerous to be around. She swallowed and didn't answer. She could only look on at this sixteen year old man who had used to be her boyfriend. Did she really not love him? Could what he had just said be true?

"Answer the question, milady, Megan."

Megan still sat there without speaking. She was still too shocked to say anything.

"ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION YOU CUNT!"

"Whatever!"

Megan felt tears. She fought them back. Tears were a sign of weakness. Weakness was something she could never show. Not ever.

"When you started growing a bit distant I knew something was wrong. An excuse here and there so that we couldn't go on dates. You always told me you were free on a certain night, but those nights either never came, or were nights during which you knew I was busy. I didn't suspect much, you know. It was when you started bitching at me less and insulting me less that I did."

Megan's eyes widened. He knew. Somehow he knew. She didn't know how, but he fucking knew.

"I followed you one night when you said that you were busy. Oh, boy were you BUSY! Busy with Steve Derek, of course!"

"Ah, shit," Megan breathed quietly. "Listen Bra-"

"Be quiet. I need to ask you a question. When you get a shock to the system like seeing your girl with a guy that isn't you, your mind spits out some crazy-ass shit. Have you ever sucked his cock?"

Megan almost nodded, surprised at the question. The answer was 'no', of course, but she almost told him 'yes'. The night may have gone differently had that happened. She shook her head.

"Okay." Brad nodded and then pressed a finger to his lips. The front door opened just beyond the door that Brad was waiting beside. Realization dawned on Megan what he was standing there for.

"Honey, I'm-"

Megan's mother got two steps into the door when the glass circle was brought down hard on her head and she collapsed to the floor hopefully just unconscious. God forbid she be dead.

"MOM!" Megan shrieked as the gong sound of the glass hitting her mother subsided. The glass circle was broken a bit on the outside and the portion that had been knocked off was probably lodged in her mother's head, which would explain the blood coming up and out of her head. The blood was a good sign, though. A dead body couldn't bleed because the blood wasn't circulating.

That was when the tears came. There was no sobbing, just a semi-steady stream of tears.

"Home," Brad finished her mother's, God forbid, last sentence. He then walked into the entrance hall and closed the front door, which had been left open so that their cat, Nudge, could get in for the night. Nudge wouldn't be getting back in this night or any night, though. "Lucille Ball oughta sue your ass, bitch."

Brad then shut the inside door that he had patiently been waiting beside for ten minutes. Megan's arms and legs were tied, so she hadn't been able to go to her mother, whose blood was now seeping into the carpet as her eyes stared out into the world, oblivious of its existence. When Megan had seen that the blood was beginning to stop flowing, she had known her mother was dead. Her "read to me" mommy was dead. Her "I wanna pet the kitty" mom was dead. The mother who had put up with Megan's shit for nearly seventeen years was dead.

"Two down and two to go," Brad stated nonchalantly as he sat down beside the couch on the brown chair. "Your mom's cooling and your cat… well, I snapped ol' Nudge's neck and nailed him to your garage with a screwdriver just like John Shooter from "Secret Window, Secret Garden", which, by the way, is why I've got this stain here on my shirt. Yo fadda at woik and I just GOTTA kill him before I kill you. Ya see, yoi mah speshal lil moida victim."

"You killed her…" Megan mumbled as she stared at her dead mom's body through puffy eyes.

Brad looked over at the body of the woman he had just killed. He then started laughing obscenely. He then got up and walked over the body. He picked it up-not easily, mind you, it was dead weight he was carrying, over a hundred and fifty pounds of it-and then dragged it over to the couch. He then put the body into a sitting position on the couch and grabbed its head. He turned the head to face Megan and then started moving the mouth with his other hand. Then he spoke like the grotesque, professional ventriloquist he was.

"Hello Megan, you hurt my Grand Canyon of a cunt a lot when you came out of it."

He then started laughing even more and sat back down on the chair.

Megan stared disbelievingly at the dead body. Then she turned and puked onto the brown carpet, effectively ruining it, though that didn't seem like such a big deal at all, what with her parent's dead body looking at her after being used like a puppet.

Brad sighed. Then he spoke in that annoying accent again. "Moi lil baebae just went an' done did a baaaaad ting. Ruining da carpat. Yo a vewy sick lil girl, baebae."

That's about the time when Megan passed out and fell limp against the couch.

It was about an hour later when she woke up. Not much had changed. Nudge was now lying on the replaced glass circle on the table, the blood that hadn't stopped dripping or coagulating before the unfortunate cat had been brought in had dried on the table. Nudge must've been very recently dead when he had been brought in.

Then there was also the fact that her dead mother had, thank God, been removed from the room. Brad was staring at her with a sniper's patience while sitting just under the big screen television he had sent the remote flying into.

"Hello Clarice," Brad greeted her in an imitation of Hannibal's voice from "The Silence of the Lambs".

Megan sat back up from her lying position and noticed something: her jeans were missing. She immediately rolled her legs up to cover her pubic hairs. Her eyes went wide and she looked at Brad accusingly. "W-What'd you d-duh-do to m-mah-me?"

Brad snickered. "You think I'd rape you while you were sleeping? What kind of sick fuck do you think I am?"

He then laughed again. The sound made Megan sick to her stomach. How could such a horrible person experience happiness like that?

"Ah ha a widdle question foi ya," Brad said. "Whain dahs dah-dah coime hoime?"

Megan didn't want to tell him. She kept herself from talking.

Brad then stood up. He was wearing no pants, just boxers. It looked like a large twig was in those boxers.

"If you don't talk I'll take you outside and wake up the whole neighborhood as I give you a present. Do you want that? All the embarrassment. All the attention. Oh the humanity."

Megan shook her head. She then managed out a sentence. "Not gonna tell you."

Brad smiled. "Okee then."

He was across the room in a flash and pulling her hair. Megan felt herself being dragged onto the carpet and then across it. She was just in the entrance hall and looking up from underneath all of the jackets and coats while smelling the stench from the shoes and boots when she couldn't take it anymore.

"Eleven thirty!" she shrieked.

Brad stopped dragging her and looked down at her. He looked like a giant. "Good girl. I'll give you your present in private, then."

She started screaming in protest as he dragged her back inside. She tried to lash out at him, but all of her limbs were tied.

"NO! STOP! STOP IT!"

Brad glanced at the clock on the DVD player (the Jim Carrey movie had stopped playing, so it now displayed the time instead of the running time). It was ten forty. Plenty of time.

He dropped her hair in the middle of the living room and grabbed her legs as she tried to squirm her way away.

He took out a butterfly knife and slashed the ropes that tied her legs together at the ankles. He then took his 9mm out of his boxer lining. He placed the muzzle against Megan's head.

"Shut… up…" he ordered her. He then chambered a round. "You're my special murder victim, but I got no problem killing your father after I kill you."

Megan tried to stop crying, to stop sobbing. It took her a moment to do so, but she did. Then she received her "present".

*&*&*&*&*&*&*&

Around eleven Megan was fully dressed again with a part of her body very sore. Her ankles were tied again, but she didn't care. That had just been the most horrifying thing she had ever gone through. She had always wondered why everyone was so… strange after they were raped. Now she knew. She felt… violated. It was horrible.

Brad was sitting on the floor with a big grin on his face. It disgusted her. Ironic that it was that very grin that she had used to consider one of his better features.

Veronica, Megan's mother, was now back in the room. Norman, her father, would be home soon. Megan had no idea what exactly it was that Brad had planned for him. She didn't want to know.

Brad then took out a cigarette, lit it with a lighter that had naked women on it, and started puffing on it.

"It was good for me. Was it good for you?" Brad then laughed until his cigarette fell out and he had to gather it up from the carpet, which now had blood, bile, AND cigarette ash on it. "Answer the question."

Megan looked at him dully.

"Tell me if you enjoyed it or not."

"No."

Brad threw his head back and laughter spewed out. Megan felt as though she would puke again.

"What was the last thing you ever said to your mother?"

Megan tried to ignore him. Brad didn't like that.

"Megan, honey, tell Brad what the last thing you ever said to your mother was."

"I told her 'good bye'," Megan replied.

Brad grinned. "Your father?"

Megan then turned away from him. She wished he hadn't asked that.

Brad walked over to her and grabbed her chin to turn her head back to him. "Why do you keep ignoring me?"

"You can only kill me once," Megan answered. The truth was she didn't want to remember her last encounter with her father. Brad grinned.

"Here's a choice: do you want an easy, semi-fast death? Or do you want a very long, horrible death? With your attitude the way it is I might just be assuming that you want the latter. Do you?"

"No." She couldn't keep the fear out of her voice.

"What about the last thing you said to your father, then?"

Megan closed her eyes and more tears came. "I told him to fuck off."

Brad's grin grew. His face drew close to hers as she opened her swimming eyes. "That's the last thing you'll ever say to him."

Why was he doing this? All she had done was cheat on him! That didn't justify all of this!

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Does anyone really care?" Brad asked, grinning still. "I'll tell you what the media is probably going to assume: Marilyn Manson."

Megan closed her eyes. She had expected a joke answer, and that's what she had gotten.

Brad sat down under the broken television again and that's where he sat for the next twenty minutes, silent.

For the final ten minutes before her father came Brad was spinning his gun on his finger like a cowboy.

"I think your dad's home," Brad stated as a car door slammed outside.

Megan started shaking her head. "Don't, don't, please don't."

Brad then walked into the entrance hall and closed the door behind him. Then voices filtered through the wall.

"Hey, Brad," her father greeted him in a friendly voice. Norman secretly despised Brad, but didn't like to show his dislike of anyone.

"Hello," Brad replied.

"Were you just leaving?" Norman asked and there was a shuffling of footsteps as Norman probably moved away from the door.

"Yes, sir, I was."

She then heard Brad leaving. She breathed a sigh of relief. He was leaving. He was leaving Norman and her alive.

Then Norman walked in with a smile that disappeared the moment Megan saw it. His eyes trailed from Veronica to Nudge to his own daughter, who was tied up and looked like she had gone through hell.

"Jesus Christ," Norman muttered under his breath.

Then he turned back to the door, probably hoping to catch Brad and pummel him to death. He turned around and found himself staring down the barrel of Brad's 9mm.

"DAD!" Megan screamed as Brad pulled the trigger. Her scream was lost in the blast of the gun. There was a sickening plopping sound as brain matter landed on the carpet, then there was a thump as Norman fell dead to the floor. Most of his face was gone. "NO!"

Then there was another gun blast. Megan looked down and saw a hole in her chest. Blood was seeping through it and staining her clothes.

"I don't know how much time you've got left if I hit what I wanted to," Brad began. "I want you to answer one more question for me. Did you ever really love me?"

Megan looked up at him. She had trouble finding her voice. "Until today," she managed out.

She didn't believe in love, but she had felt attraction to him, which was probably the closest to love that anyone could get.

Brad looked at her grimly. It was the first human look he had given her that night. Whatever demon had been possessing him before was gone… and he was simply Brad again.

"Then I'm truly sorry."

Then Brad, the Brad that hadn't killed her parents and her cat and shot her and raped her, turned the gun on himself. His was the last death of that night in the town of Jerrickville. If there is a Hell, Brad has been burning in it ever since.

Brad did listen to Marilyn Manson, but this time around the media didn't wrongfully blame him. The media blamed his mildly abusive, mildly neglectful parents. They never thought of putting the blame where it belonged, on the troubled mind of Bradley Burnham, which had been overridden by the small things.

Megan visited the graves of her mother and father when she got out of the hospital. Brad had missed her lungs, which he had been aiming for, and her spinal cord, which had been his back-up target. The grave of Brad was not visited by anyone but his little brother and his own parents at first.

Three years later Megan, now older and perhaps the closest to forgiving Brad that she ever would be, went to his grave. Then she recalled times of happiness with the occupant of the grave.

She didn't think of the expensive, brown carpet that had been covered with so much by the end of one certain night on April 20th, 2005. She didn't think of a gun shot that seemed to echo into eternity. And she decided to only think of the Brad who had killed himself and not of the Demon.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Hey, MorbidMan here. I in no way agree with the actions of Brad. Some may think of me as some psychotic teenager at home with a grudge against his girlfriend, scribbling down a little plot in the form of a story. NOTHING, nothing could be further from the truth.

The name Brad Burnham is a reference to "American Beauty". "Brad" Dupree is a man that Lester "Burnham" works with in that movie.

I'd say that I hope you enjoyed this, but for some reason that seems like a grotesque thing to say. I've been lacking the will to write for a couple of months, which is why I'm not finished with most of my stories yet. I'm sorry to readers of those stories. I'll probably be updating a lot in the school year if not during August (happy birthday to me on the 15th!).

"I WAITED TEN YEARS FOR YOU! I'm not giving you nothing!" - Vincent Grey "The Sixth Sense"